


know you feel it

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Illya, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, M/M, Mating, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Napoleon, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men...</p>
<p>Napoleon's been very careful about his little 'secret'. It doesn't stay secret for very long; not after what's supposed to be a routine extraction mission goes slightly awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	know you feel it

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Know you feel it 心意相通](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131285) by [blakjc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakjc/pseuds/blakjc), [blue--phantom (twilightscribe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom)



> Originally written in response to [this prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=109440#cmt109440) on the Man from UNCLE kink meme.
> 
> Please note that there is a descriptive warning for a scene in the fic in the bottom author's note. You can click to see it.

Napoleon has learned to be meticulously careful about his ‘little’ secret. 

It isn’t a secret that he keeps out of shame; it’s all about practicalities. His options as an omega are _painfully_ limited; he wasn’t keen on staying home, forging a bond with an alpha he doesn’t care about, and popping children out to ‘do his part for the war effort’. 

Not his style. Not interested. 

Instead, he gets his hands on a good supply of suppressants, which are easy to find when one knows where to look for them. And he’s careful about them, too. Keeps them stashed in a variety of places, the most obvious ones where no one would think to look for them because those places are just _too_ obvious. 

Though, no one is actually looking for the suppressants. With a pair of dead parents and a background in the foster system until he cut and ran, there’s no one who knows beside Napoleon himself. 

And Napoleon’s been carefull his entire life. He covers his tracks, hides what he is and keeps it a closely guarded secret. When his crimes catch up to him, he takes the deal. 

Prison would be a certain death sentence. Degrading, painful, and Napoleon has no desire to be abused and used and tossed away at the end of it all. Better to take the leash. Napoleon is cunning, knows better than to give them more than they need. 

It’s his one secret he still has. This one never makes it to his file. 

  

  

  

Simple extraction. In and out. Locate one Gaby Teller, daughter of Hitler’s favourite rocket scientist, and bring her back across the wall with him. Not a problem. These sorts of missions are a dime a dozen; Napoleon could run one in his sleep. 

Napoleon’s always been very lucky. And careful. Omegas don’t get to the places that he’s gotten to without a healthy combination of both. What Napoleon’s handlers consider unnecessary recklessness; he considers a careful smokescreen distraction. 

His confidence turns out to be his weakness. And this simple extraction? Far from it. 

Everything goes to hell very, very quickly. 

Napoleon’s carefully maintained and protected secret blows up in his face. 

  

  

  

Clearly, whatever that alpha is, he’s not human. 

That does not stop the jolt that shoots down his spine, lighting up his every nerve with _mine_. 

“Why don’t you just shoot him?” Gaby asks, and oh, there’s definitely shock mixed in there, but she _knows_ now. Too late to hide it, she can scent it on the air. 

The alpha that has a hold on the back of their car definitely can too. Napoleon can see his nostrils flare at the sharp, spike of arousal, of want, that flares through Napoleon’s system. 

Despite how his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, how his trousers have become incredibly uncomfortable, and that he’s wetter now than he _ever_ has been, Napoleon manages to keep his tone light. 

“Somehow, it just doesn’t seem right.” 

His skin is on fire, lust and desire crawling under his skin, which has become too tight and stretched uncomfortably across his bones. _Increased compatibility sensitivity_. One of the worst symptoms of the suppressants, Napoleon realizes now. It’s not one he’s ever had to take into account before. It’s never been a problem. 

He’s treading in unfamiliar territory. One wrong move and he drowns. 

He hadn’t planned for this outcome. 

  

  

  

The chase is an absolute disaster. 

Even with the suppressants, his scent remains bright and clear. It’s a homing beacon that draws in that monstrous alpha chasing them like a moth to a flame. He hears the violence plain as day in his voice, which sends shivers down his spine and there’s a new wave of arousal coursing through him to compliment the adrenalin. 

He feels like prey. He wants to be caught; wants to be caught and used and pressed down against the roof and taken, over and over again, until he can’t walk, until he forgets _everything_. He wants the roughness, the near violence, knows how easily he could have all of that, but he can’t. Not now. 

Compatible they may be, but Napoleon’s not quite willing enough to sacrifice one leash for another. If nothing else, he _did_ make Gaby a promise, one which he plans on keeping. Maybe once he slips the leash in another five years, he can seek that out. 

Or just wait until this mission is completed. 

Because Napoleon can feel the thrum of lust under his skin, the pulse racing through his entire body, and even though it’s been years, he knows exactly what it means. Unwanted biological functions always have the absolute worst timing, 

His heats never come when it’s convenient. 

When the hatch covering the roof access blows off, Napoleon’s thinking more about how he’s going to need to double his suppressants than the pressing need to escape. But when the hatch cover hits the roof with a loud crash, he knows that’s his exit cue. Gaby is quite small for an alpha, but her arms feel completely wrong around him as they flee. He can’t really do anything about that. 

Napoleon does have to bite back the instinctual response to shrink away from her, push her away, because that’s counterintuitive to what actually needs to be done. He can’t afford to mess this mission up due to his own hormones. 

He does, however, feel quite guilty about dropping that monstrous alpha into the minefield. Can’t win them all. 

  

  

  

With how Napoleon’s luck has been lately, he should not feel so surprised at the reappearance of _that_ alpha. Nor should he be shocked that they’re supposed to be partners. 

The absolute worst part, though, is that they’re _left alone with each other_. 

Even though he’s read the file, knows it backwards and forwards, it changes nothing regarding their compatibility. Or how Napoleon’s still thrumming from their chase, because he might have doubled his suppressant dose to try and manage it, but it doesn’t stop the bright pulses of want under his skin, or erase the hum of a chase left incomplete. 

Napoleon might have gotten away that time, but this time he isn’t. There isn’t any place left for him to run. 

So Napoleon does what he does best. He pushes all of the wrong buttons. Knows _exactly_ what to say, what to do, to get under this alpha’s skin, make him angry. If he’s lucky, which Napoleon is starting to doubt he actually is right now, the other will hate him. Making this Russian alpha want absolutely nothing to do with him, their intense compatibility be damned, is the end goal. 

It’s not so much that Napoleon’s not curious about what it might be like, because he is and it’s been years since he was properly with an alpha. He’s spent too many years playing a different role and he’s curious to see whether their compatibility might make a difference. 

But they’re playing for different sides right now. Star-crossed doesn’t even begin to cover it. No matter the compatibility, they’re still on opposite sides of a very real conflict. They might be working together now, but that’s only temporary. Complicating things further would be bad. For both of them. 

Or, at least, that’s what Napoleon tells himself when Kuryakin flips the table and storms off. He ignores the way his whole body feels tight, how he feels like something’s been torn inside of him, and tucks that feeling away. Things are complicated enough as it is, he doesn’t need the addition of _feelings_ being added in. 

But it’s just so unfortunate that he still feels the burning imprint of those hands on him. 

  

  

  

The problem with suppressants is that they don’t actually make an omega’s heat stop once it has started. The most that they can do is suppress the scent, hide it, and keep down the highly increased libido. 

  
They do not mask compatibility. They magnify it. 

Gaby certainly notices it. She watches their little dances with an amused cant to her lips and a spark in her eyes that tells Napoleon that she knows. She’s still displeased about playing fiancée to a man she has no romantic interest in. 

“I don’t see why _I_ have to play the fiancée when you two are already a perfectly matched set.” 

Kuryakin doesn’t react beyond a sharp inhale, a tensing of his shoulders. It says a lot about how attuned to his presence, his little mannerisms, that Napoleon has become, that tell him that the other man is uncomfortable with this. It also tells him that Kuryakin isn’t at all _opposed_ to that idea, either. 

It nixes that little hope of Napoleon’s that Kuryakin would be one of those alphas attracted to other alphas. It isn’t uncommon; alphas always outnumber omegas. 

Napoleon isn’t really happy about how quickly his secret’s come out with these two. When he speaks, he can’t quite hide the shade of bitterness to his tone, “It’s a little bit late for that now, for one, and another, I’m not exactly a _good_ omega.” 

Gaby’s eyebrows are not going to come down from her hairline. She’s found the loose thread and she’s going to follow it. 

“Really? Because from the file _I_ was given on the Vinciguerras, Alexander has quite the fondness for pretty dark-haired omegas. And you fit that bill perfectly, much better than I do.” 

Both of them should have expected the rage. 

Kuryakin flips the table that his carefully planned chess game has been played on and storms out of the room, door slamming behind him in a rage. There’s a live current running under Napoleon’s skin, and he makes an aborted move to go after Kuryakin before reality sets back in. Not a good idea. 

Gaby smiles a little, “What’re you waiting for? Better go after him before he tears Alexander Vinciguerra apart. He’s no good to us dead.” 

She is a manipulative little vixen, Napoleon thinks. She’s playing matchmaker because she finds it amusing. Maybe a tad because she thinks it would be _good_ for them. He certainly can read that in the line of her knowing smile. 

“I’m afraid that – compatibility aside – Peril’s not really interested in what I have to offer.” 

“Mm, you keep telling yourself that,” Gaby replies. She flips open the magazine in her lap, turning to an article and settling in. “Just you wait until another alpha makes a move on you. You’ll see.” 

  

  

  

Napoleon’s initial impression of Illya Kuryakin, both after reading his file and their first few encounters, are of an alpha with a barely contained reign on his brutal, natural instincts. The rage, the anger, its not entirely uncommon – plenty of alphas suffer from a certain level of instability. 

Kuryakin, though, proves Napoleon wrong. On all counts. 

Under the rough exterior, beneath the anger, is someone very passionate. It’s evident in his work, the meticulous attention to detail, but also in his seemingly naturally protective nature. Kuryakin has been quite protective with Gaby – that is where Napoleon notices it most. 

But he cannot ignore, now, that it’s not just Gaby who it’s aimed at. 

“Loving your work, Cowboy,” Kuryakin says, and the roll of his eyes is implicit in his tone. But it’s still tinged with a sort of _fondness_ that Napoleon isn’t used to. If he had the time, he’d pause to take it in. 

Napoleon’s a good shot. Kuryakin is better. Despite how botched the operation is, they work well together. Despite always working alone, Napoleon easily adjusts to the presence of Kuryakin at his back. It’s reassuring, solid, and a good portion of their easy cooperation can probably be marked down to their intense compatibility. 

However, that only goes so far, because there’s a tense line in Kuryakin’s jaw. His hand a burning weight against Napoleon’s hip as he pulls him behind cover. Pressed so close, there’s no way that he can miss the way Napoleon trembles under his touch. 

But he says nothing. He does nothing. 

It’s… more than a little confusing. In fact, it’s downright bewildering. Napoleon hadn’t expected that Kuryakin would be so unaffected by such close contact from a very compatible omega – and one in heat to boot. He can’t quite wrap his head around it. 

When Kuryakin goes down, Napoleon goes after him with little thought. 

His skin is still buzzing from their contact, even through their clothes, and all this necessitated close contact. He’s rather disappointed in that there’s no requirement for mouth-to-mouth. 

But what seals the deal, what convinces Napoleon that is he most likely doomed in avoiding the inevitability of all of this, is the long drive back. It’s impossible for him to ignore the press of Kuryakin at his back, the way he curls around him. His arms are tight around Napoleon’s waist, his legs tucked up behind his own, and he’s so _warm_. 

Against the back of his neck, Kuryakin’s breath is like a hot brand and there’s no way to explain away what that does to Napoleon. His heat hasn’t broken since their chase in Berlin; Napoleon knows it won’t stop until they do _something_. Not even the threat of being caught, of being found out, is enough to put a tamper on the swell of heat inside of him. 

It’s the worst sort of temptation, because he absolutely knows that he can have it. 

  

  

  

Victoria Vinciguerra is not a gentle lover, as Napoleon finds out. He’d been a little out of it, having downed a triple dose of suppressants the second he returned to his room before donning his little ruse. Had to scrub off the lingering scents of omega from his skin quickly, erase the lingering smell of Kuryakin. 

Maybe she scented something he missed, but Napoleon doubts that. He’s unsure if this is how she treats all her lovers, ties them down to the bed too tightly and takes from them whatever she wants. She’s quite the selfish lover, that much is for certain, and his entire body is aching, even the next morning. The only good news is that, at least, she didn’t mark him anywhere. 

Despite the hours long bath he took to try and ease some of the pain, it hasn’t helped much. He takes something for the pain, but it barely takes the edge off. 

There are angry red lines about his wrists and a matching set on his ankles. He’s chafed and raw in places that he _shouldn’t_ be and there’s a latticework of scratches across his back, sides, and chest. With bruises on his hips and thighs and god knows where else, Napoleon knows he’s a mass of hurt and he feels completely and utterly used. It’s different from how it usually is, because there’s typically a little more give and take – nothing like the one-sided sex of the night before. 

Kuryakin’s standing beside the desk nearly ramrod straight, his arms crossed and finger tap-tapping against his opposite arm. He’s staring at Napoleon, who is trying to fix himself a glass with some Alka-Seltzer and not reveal just how much pain he’s in every time he moves. 

But Kuryakin notices. Napoleon’s sleeve rides up and there’s no hiding the abrasions there any longer. 

The touch on his hand is gentle, but Napoleon still flinches. He sees the hesitation in Kuryakin’s eyes, but then his grip is just a little firmer. Nothing that Napoleon couldn’t break out of if he wanted to, but the touch of skin on skin sends currents of electricity straight up his spine and sets a warmth burning deep inside of him. The aches feel distant now. 

Slowly, Kuryakin turns his wrist in his grip. His touch is light, though his hands are large, callused, and full of a strength that Napoleon knows could break him easily. 

Kuryakin’s frowning, with a matching crease between his brows, but his eyes and touch are gentle. His thumb strokes along Napoleon’s palm, the gesture rather absent in intent but still incredibly intimate. 

“She did this,” Kuryakin says. His voice is soft, but there is steel in it. “It is wrong. That she does.” 

Napoleon wants to shrug it off, laugh, and say that alphas are wont to do whatever it is that pleases them, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat feels tight. He’s not sure if it’s the compatibility or his own feelings that are making him choke up. Likely, it’s a combination of both. For Illya Kuryakin is a far more layered individual than Napoleon initially gave him credit for. 

He hadn’t thought that he’d want it so much. That he’d want the gentleness, the sweetness, or that he’d _want_ to feel like he’s treasured. 

“You do too much. And do not care for yourself.” 

“It’s all for the good of the mission. I’d rather not be discovered by our Italian fascist friends.” His voice is hoarse; he has to talk past the lump in his throat. 

Despite the strength of the suppressants he’s on, he can smell just the tiniest bit of his own, natural omega scent beneath the soap and cologne. If he can scent it, then so can Kuryakin. 

But Kuryakin doesn’t act on it, instead, he glares at Napoleon, “She has no right. You are not property to be used.” 

It’s a topic closed to discussion, because Kuryakin makes Napoleon’s mind go blissfully blank with pleasure and a not so small amount of affection with one simple gesture. 

He leans down and presses a single, soft lingering kiss to the abrasions on the inside of Napoleon’s wrist. 

  

  

  

If it weren’t for the drugs coursing their way through his system, Napoleon’s heart would be hammering frantically in his chest. As it is, it’s fluttering erratically against his ribcage. He’s strapped down, woozy and out of it, and he feels the press of metal against his skin. 

When he finally works his eyes open, he knows that this is likely it. The end. Game over. 

Maybe it’s a combination of the fear that he won’t show as the current courses through him, the drugs that Victoria used on him, or whatever else they might have injected him with in the meantime. But he _presents._

Victoria is long gone, too late for her to gloat about this little reveal. But Rudi is there and he is positively _gleeful_. 

“What’s this? Have I caught a little omega in my grasp? Oh, perhaps not so little, you are quite the specimen. You will make for such a pretty addition to my story.” 

Rudi is so giddy with excitement that he can’t stay still. He’s out of his chair, pacing excitedly in front of Napoleon with a mad gleam in his eye. 

“You’ll be begging soon. All omegas break in the end – and so quickly. You simply need to press against the weakest point: the alpha. Usually, they’re so easy to break – such fragile creatures you are. But not you, _Mr. Solo_ , oh no. Parading about like an alpha, strutting about with the swagger of what you’re not? I will break you of your strength. You will make for such a _beautiful_ edition to my little story.” 

He’s still grinning, face distorted as he pulls the camera closer. 

“All in glittering, vivid colour. It’s so real that you can nearly taste it, you know.” 

Rudi steps closer, presses a foot against the pedal, sending a jolt through Napoleon that has his jaw clenching. He couldn’t even cry out if he wanted, the shocks lock up every muscle, keep him from screaming. 

The shock stops abruptly. There is no relief. 

He has nowhere to go when Rudi reaches down and grabs him, hard, through his pants and squeezes. It hurts. He’s still in pain from the shock, systems feeling like they’re about to overload from the pain and he can’t stop the small broken noise he makes low in his throat. 

“Ah, you’ll make such sweet music for me. You’ll have to sing a little bit louder, but give it time.” 

Rudi steps away, releasing Napoleon, but the sensation of _wrong not mine not mine not Illya_ stays with him. Napoleon doesn’t know his own threshold for this sort of torture, but he knows the side-effects: heart palpitations, difficulties breathing, burns, a good chance that he’ll pass out and Rudi will be able to do what he so desires with no resistance. 

It’s not like he could offer much of that anyway. His head’s an awful haze. The drugs, the electrocution, they’re all having an awful effect on him and the suppressants are wearing off because the burn is back beneath his skin. He knows that Rudi can scent it. It’s so obvious now that he’s presented. He’s presenting and he’s in heat and Rudi has him completely at his mercy. 

As Rudi settles into his chair once more, he leans forward conspiratorially, the camera flashing as his foot hovers over the pedal. 

“I won’t let you pass out yet, you need to be conscious for our grand finale. You’ll look so pretty, painted in a lovely shade of red, split open and spread out for my camera’s view. Just think, immortalized in such a perfect manner. Maybe I’ll find your little Russian alpha; show him just how easily your womb opened for me. Oh, they’ll certainly have caught him by now. Such a shame. We can bring him in then, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it? He can watch me while I take you apart, you screaming for him, for mercy, for God – I’m not particular who you scream for, but the pain is always so much greater if you cry out for _him_.” 

His hands are trembling with excitement, above the album containing its blank page that he plans to fill with Napoleon. 

“What a beautifully perfect ending to your story, don’t you think? We won’t have to break him at all. No. No no, you’ll do that for us, won’t you?” 

  

  

  

All that he’s aware of for the longest time is a haze of pain. He thinks that he hears Illya’s voice – and he _is_ Illya now because Napoleon’s certain that he’s dying and he’s always had the worst timing – but that can’t be because Illya is far away from him. Illya cannot be here. 

The straps are peeled away and Napoleon _whimpers_ because it hurts more than he’d like to admit and his skin is so sensitive that even the brush of his clothes is painful. He hurts, he wants it to stop, and that burn of desire and want is still there despite it all, thrumming hotly through his veins. 

He’s hauled up, out of the chair, and into strong arms that he knows and he has to curl closer to that heat. He can scent Illya, a sharp musk that cuts straight through the pain and leaves him in a daze. 

Without thought, he’s arching up, a complete mess, and he _wants_. Oh god does he _want_. Illya is here. Illya will make it better. Illya is _his_. Safety and warmth and care and _Illya_. Everything will be alright, because Illya will take care of him. 

He keeps trying to bare his neck, but he’s trembling so badly that he can’t. He just drops it to Illya’s shoulder and nuzzles closer; his heart is fluttering quickly one moment, slowing down the next, before jumping again. His skin feels too hot, stretched too thin across his bones, and his head is spinning. 

Illya sets him down on a clear space on a nearby desk, shoving aside a mound of electrical equipment. Napoleon’s too out of it to care. He tries to wrap his legs around Illya’s hips, tries to pull him in and trap him there until he _makes_ the ache inside of him go away, but their clothing gets in the way. 

Napoleon makes a high whining noise. His fingers are numbed, and he uselessly paws at Illya’s jacket, as though he’ll be able to peel it off and get at the skin underneath. 

Illya catches his shaking hands with ease, “Napoleon.” 

He gets a whimper in response. Napoleon’s too lost for words to reach him now. 

Illya releases Napoleon’s hands, which take advantage of their freedom and he weakly fists them in the fabric of Illya’s shirt. For his part, Illya ignores them and instead reaches into his pocket, removing something. 

Cupping Napoleon’s jaw in one hand, he carefully presses three pills against Napoleon’s lips. He stares right at Napoleon, firm, not giving down, and Napoleon’s helpless against him, parts his lips and swallows them dry. 

Once Illya’s certain that Napoleon’s swallowed the pills, he draws him close, tucking him under his chin and holds him until the worst of the trembling subsides. It takes a long – too long – stretch of minutes for the suppressants to kick in, but they clear the haze of heat in Napoleon’s mind. He still aches, though, and his heart still cannot find a steady rhythm. 

“You feel better?” Illya asks, softly, against the crown of Napoleon’s head. 

Napoleon nods wordlessly. Part of him is embarrassed at his lack of control, but he rationally knows that it’s just a terrible combination. 

Slowly, Illya pulls back and away, hands lingering on Napoleon’s face. His thumb gently brushes against the corner of Napoleon’s lips and it sends a jolt of arousal down his spine. Even with the suppressants working now, Napoleon’s keenly aware that there’s no hiding what he is now. It’s hard to care with the way that Illya is looking at him. 

“You wait here.” 

Napoleon’s voice cracks, “Sure, got no where else to go.” 

It earns him a sharp look from Illya, who finally breaks contact, to haul a semi-conscious Rudi into the chair that Napoleon was in minutes ago. With a clearer head now, Napoleon can see that the doors leading in have practically been torn off their hinges. He watches as Illya straps Rudi into the chair methodically, steps back, and calmly presses his foot down on the pedal. 

Rudi jumps in the chair, makes a high noise that would be hilarious coming from an alpha like him. There’s a slight tilt to the corner of Illya’s lips; he’s enjoying this. He lifts his foot from the pedal after a moment. 

Rudi is already running his mouth, “You want information? I’ll give it. You want to know where the bomb is? I’ll tell you. We’re well beyond the theoretical stages now, my large Russian friend. I suppose you’ll want revenge against my treacherous little niece? I can testify against–” 

Illya slams his foot down on the pedal, “I would much rather see you _hang_.” 

It’s a little anticlimactic. The chair’s shoddy wiring short out while Illya’s foot is still pressed down on the pedal. He looks pissed. 

“They’ve got a glitch in the system,” Napoleon tells him. His voice is still hoarse, he still feels awful. All his limbs feel like they’re made of jelly and he’s still trembling intermittently. He desperately wants to see Rudi dead, but at the same time, they _need_ information. 

“Then I will fix it.” 

Illya’s already moving to examine the wiring, and Napoleon has little doubt that he’ll be able to fix the chair’s faulty wiring if given enough time – which is something that they’re in awful short supply of. 

Knowing that he has to do _something_ , Napoleon does the one thing that he can do. He tries to stand from where he’s still resting on the table. His legs aren’t up to the burden yet. They give out and he crashes to the ground in an excruciatingly painful heap. Pain lances up his entire body, making him grit his teeth. 

He won’t give Rudi anymore of what he wants. 

Illya is at his side in seconds, an arm sliding under Napoleon’s violently trembling knees while the other goes around his shoulders. Rudi’s struggling to see them now, but he’s still tightly strapped down and unable to move much. That doesn’t, however, stop him from talking. 

“The bomb. You want to know about the bomb, right? It’s not here. You won’t find it here or the professor. No, no, it’s all gone. Moved to their private island, you see. No one’s going to take a risk with that. But Gaby’s always known where her real loyalty lies, but that’s unimportant. Do you want more? I can give you more. I’ll rat out anyone – just ask.” 

Rudi is completely incapable of shutting up. The constant rattle of his voice is making Napoleon’s aching head worse. He’d really like for the man to shut up, especially since he’s given them all they need to know. 

But, for now, he’s quite content to stay on this dusty, dirty floor in Illya’s arms and just burrow into that warmth of his. It’s a combination of an unconscious desire and his own conscious ones that has him wrapping his arms around Illya’s neck. He just wants to enjoy the warmth for as long as it lasts. 

“He tortured you,” Illya murmurs softly, breaking the quiet as he speaks into Napoleon’s ear. “You decide what we do with him.” 

Logically, Napoleon knows that they should take him alive and turn him over to the ‘proper’ authorities. But, at the same time, Napoleon knows exactly what they’ll do with a man like Rudi Teller. His skill set would be considered invaluable, and Napoleon’s seen first hand what the American government does with captured German scientists and their work. Even ones of Rudi’s sadistic and cruel temperament. 

There’s bitterness there, and a lot of fear. The last thing that Napoleon wants is to have to face Rudi again – in a professional context. He doesn’t want to have to look the man in the eye, remember what he _threatened_ to do to him, to Illya, and what he likely _could_ do with an American pardon and with his skill set applied to their benefit. 

But Napoleon’s also tired, sore, and still trembling intermittently. He feels nothing like himself; as a matter of fact, he feels a lot like someone has scrambled up his insides and then shoved them back in. Illya’s presence is soothing, providing something of a balance to counteract the growing pit of anxiety inside of him. Napoleon has always prided himself on being rather fearless, but no one is without fear. He needs a chance to regain his equilibrium. 

The last thing he wants to do is face Rudi again. Much less right now, when he still feels so raw and vulnerable. 

He curls closer to Illya, making himself as small as he possibly can, “For now, let’s just get out of here.” 

They have what they need, he thinks absently. Illya stands up, the movement smooth and it doesn’t jar him at all. Despite his massive size, Illya moves with a grace and smoothness that is rather reminiscent of a cat. 

“They’ll just give him back his freedom, you know,” Napoleon says. “If we let him live. The CIA will be very interested in a man with his skills. Give him a pardon, let him go back to work.” 

Illya’s arms tighten around him, holding him closer if that were even possible, “Will not happen.” 

Trying to tilt his head up to look at Illya is too much effort, so Napoleon just makes a questioning noise. 

He swears he can hear the savage smirk in Illya’s voice as he replies cryptically, “He fixed the glitch.” 

  

  

  

The mission is compromised and so is he. Napoleon is beyond compromised. Even as Saunders outlines his new orders, Napoleon’s knows that he can’t do it. He cannot kill Illya. His body tenses at the thought. Judging by the look that Illya shoots him, he has the same orders. 

But they still need to stop these Nazis. 

Illya is Napoleon’s constant shadow throughout the operation. There’s no hiding what he is now, Waverly knows from the scent and so do his men. Even with the suppressants, Napoleon hasn’t showered and both his clothes and himself are saturated with his own natural scent. Illya keeps twitching whenever another alpha gets too close, but he doesn’t act on it. 

When he sees Illya go down, motorcycle tumbling over him, Napoleon’s vision goes red. That’s _his_ alpha, his Illya. He barely has the wherewithal to signal to Gaby that she had better hold on before he slams his car into the side of Alexander’s, sending them both rolling over the embankment. 

The impact dazes him, reignites a dozen points of pain along his entire body. There wasn’t time for him to be more than briefly examined by a medic, who prescribed something for his breathing and the heart palpitations. 

Illya hadn’t wanted him to come, had wanted him to stay behind and be seen to properly, but Napoleon’s not about to stay out of the line of fire when Illya will be in the thick of it. 

He has no idea if Illya survived the crash. He goes for his gun but Alexander is there, kicking it out of his hand, striking him in the jaw. Napoleon reels back, but then pain alights across his ribs as Alexander kicks him once, twice. 

There’s the click of a gun’s safety being disengaged, Napoleon blinks through the sweat and rain. He’s staring down the barrel of a gun. 

This is not how he ever pictured it ending. 

Alexander is grinning, “You lose.” 

The motorcycle Illya throws hits Alexander before he can fire, knocking him off balance. The fight is a quick, short blur. Napoleon catches sight of a bloodied knife in Illya’s hand as Alexander topples to the ground, blood welling from his mouth and from the wound in his front. 

Between the ribs, up into the heart, quick and efficient. 

Illya drops the gun that he took from Alexander and quickly checks for Gaby, who waves him off with a curse as she stumbles to her own feet. 

The blue casing of the computer disc catches Napoleon’s eye. It’s within reach. He grabs for it, tucks it away in his jacket, an idea already formulating in his head. It’s not perfect, but it’s all he can think of as Illya approaches, drops to his knees beside him and carefully gathers him close, murmuring softly in Russian. 

He cannot hurt this man. 

  

  

  

The medic who examines him is a brisk woman, who tells Napoleon to address her as Dr. Fraser and smacks him upside the head when he doesn’t. She cleans the abrasions on his wrists, made worse by the torture and now there are burns in addition; it’s a small miracle that he didn’t bleed out. 

Once his injuries are clean and smeared with an absolutely awful smelling ointment that, according to her, will help speed the healing and properly bandaged, she sits back on her little stool and gives Napoleon a hard look. 

“Do you want my medical opinion on your suppressant abuse, Mr. Solo?” she asks. 

Napoleon resists the urge to rub his wrists to try and ease the sting there, “Probably not, but I’m sure that you’re going to make me hear it anyway. So, go right ahead.” 

Her eyes narrow, “This isn’t a joke. I’m completely serious when I say that you need to reconsider how you’re managing your current status. Suppressants – especially the older ones which I’m well aware that you’ve been using for a number of years – were not meant for long-term use or omega hormone management. They weren’t designed for that. 

“If you’re willing, I can run more tests to know what we’re talking about here in terms of damage. Clearly, you don’t care about the ramifications for your fertility given that _those_ consequences have been known about for quite some time. And you know what, I don’t actually give a damn what you do with your womb, but if you’re intent is to kill yourself before you reach forty, you’re doing a fucking good job of it.” 

Fraser, Napoleon notes, has a habit of tapping her fingers against her thigh. She’s clearly more than a little agitated. 

She finally sighs, the sound a loud rush of air from behind her teeth, “Like I said, suppressants aren’t designed for long-term use as you’ve been taking them. We’re talking about some very serious ramifications regarding your heart, here, which are made more complicated by… what you’ve recently been through.” 

His blood runs cold at the reminder of Rudi. His hands tighten around his wrist, remembers the cold wrongness of his touch, as anger and fear curl inside of him, curdling into a frigid weight deep in his chest. 

For her part, she doesn’t try to touch him. Napoleon’s grateful for that. 

“Future-wise, unless you want to run the risk of your heart simply collapsing, I recommend you switch to birth control instead. I can write you a prescription,” she hesitates, dropping her voice as she continues, “I have some contacts in the States I can recommend for their… discretion on such matters. They won’t be as effective as the suppressants at hiding your scent, but they’ll regulate it well enough.” 

“This isn’t a secret I can risk anyone else knowing,” Napoleon replies. His work is awful enough as it is, but he knows just how much more exploitive it will become once Saunders knows about this. The man is vindictive at the best of times, with an enormous dislike of Napoleon as it is; if he knew, he’d take advantage of it. 

“I’m afraid at this point in your life, Mr Solo, your options are _very_ limited. You can either continue as you are and drop dead at any time, you can take birth control and continue more or less as you have been, or you can ‘retire’ with that Russian alpha of yours.” 

_Retire_ . That’s not a word Napoleon ever expects to hear regarding himself. _Retire with Illya_. 

Children are out of the equation. Napoleon knows, and Fraser doesn’t have to tell him, how deep the damage to his system goes from the decades of constant suppressant abuse. Him conceiving would be nothing short of a medical miracle. 

His options are limited. And he doesn’t fancy dying quite yet, which eliminates some of them. 

Before she leaves him to go and check on her other patients, Fraser presses a package of birth control into his hands. 

“Just in case you decide to take my advice,” she says. And then adds, just as she’s at the door, “Oh, and do make sure you and Agent Kuryakin take care of your heat. It’s already irritating a good number of the men.” 

  

  

  

The only one he gave the invitation to come to his room was Illya. Napoleon’s not entirely sure how this is going to go down. His bags are mostly packed, but he leaves the computer disk sitting on the coffee table; he can’t look away from it. 

Even if he turns it over to Saunders, his freedom isn’t guaranteed. As the man was so keen to remind him at the start of this little affair, Napoleon is _still_ the property of the United States government for another five years. His freedom is a commodity that can be traded for favours. 

But, and this is where he pauses, if he does hand it over, he’s giving the US an undeniable advantage over the Russians. Napoleon also knows that this isn’t one they’ll be content to just hold over the heads of the Soviets as a theoretical concept; no, this is one that they’ll put to immediate and practical use. 

There’s a very real risk that this little disc could lead to outright war. Illya’s life is forfeit if Napoleon completes his mission; if his handlers don’t simply kill him, then he’ll be handed the death sentence of the gulag. If the camps don’t kill him, then an all-out nuclear war certainly will. 

He can’t do that. 

When the knock at his door comes, it’s remarkably restrained. 

“Come in.” 

Illya pauses at the door, face a dark mask of stoicism though Napoleon can read the anger and betrayal in the tense lines of his shoulders. He can see the shock in the way Illya’s eyes widen a little, that there’s a little tick in his jaw, and how he hesitates in the doorframe when he catches sight of the disc on the table. 

“You know, it’s rude to linger in doorways.” It’s an attempt at lightening the tension that falls flat. Illya only moves into the room enough to close the door behind him; he slides the lock into place with a click that feels deafening in the silence. The sound of it makes Napoleon’s heart stop, before it jumps up into his throat and hammers against his Adam’s apple. 

Illya doesn’t come any closer. 

The distance between them is a problem. He can see the way that Illya’s nostrils are flared and the slight tremble in his hand. Napoleon’s gone off the suppressants, meaning that the entire room is permeated with the sweet scent of an omega in heat. 

But the scent isn’t enough. If it were, then Napoleon would have been claimed back in Berlin. 

However, Napoleon always is careful to keep an edge. Something to exploit for his protection or benefit and here it’s a little bit of both. But it sets a thrum of warmth and desire beneath his skin and he _wants_ like he hasn’t before in his life. 

Keeping his movements careful, Napoleon takes Illya’s watch from his pocket and holds it up in front of him – a silent offer to him. Napoleon tilts his head to the side, a deliberately submissive gesture that bares his neck. 

Illya looms over him in an instant, taking the watch from Napoleon with brief hesitation. He turns it over in his hands, weighing and examining it, before he puts it on. Some of the tension bleeds out of his stance, but he doesn’t sit down. He’s so close that Napoleon can feel the heat rolling off of him, the tremor running through Illya that matches the one in Napoleon. 

Leaning back against the couch, Napoleon keeps his neck bared and shifts enough to spread his legs enough so that Illya can fit comfortably between them. He slings one leg up on the couch, the movement leaving him wide open, and there’s a sharp swell of lust in him. It’s reflected in his scent, a spike of desire and there’s no point to denying that he’s wet with it: Illya can smell it. 

Illya’s braced on the couch above him, looming over Napoleon and trembling with his own want. His restraint is admirable but counterproductive. 

He reaches up, lacing his fingers together at the back of Illya’s neck and pulls him down. Illya’s knee hits the couch between Napoleon’s spread legs, and his hands tighten on the back and arm of the couch. There’s a low keening noise fighting to get free in the back of Napoleon’s throat at the lack of contact between them, but he won’t let it out. 

So close, he can scent Illya better. His want and lust is reflected at him, but stronger and with the added boost that only an alpha can have. Napoleon shivers, he wants that all over him, _inside him_. 

Just a little while longer. 

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Napoleon says. They’re so close that their breath mingles between them. 

“And what would that be?” 

Napoleon tilts his head towards the disc, but he sees how Illya’s eyes track the way his neck arcs, revealing a swath of unmarked skin. The heat in Illya’s gaze is tempered only by his hooded eyes and that’s nearly enough to make Napoleon smile. 

“My offer to you is this: You take the disc, but if you do, you claim me.” Napoleon sees the question, the hesitation, lurking in Illya’s eyes, “I want you and I’m rather unwilling to let you go. And if it comes down to my country or having you, well, I think it’s obvious which one I’d choose.” 

There’s a tick in Illya’s jaw. He’s watching Napoleon closely and, for once, Napoleon cannot read him. 

“You deserve better than trading one leash for another,” Illya says at last. He leans in, presses a lingering kiss against the underside of Napoleon’s jaw, lips touching upon Napoleon’s fluttering pulse. “You should make the choice freely.” 

Illya pulls back, casting a careful eye over the disc before turning back to Napoleon. There’s a tiny quirk at the corner of his lips, “We burn the disc and say it was lost with the bomb. Then, you make your choice.” 

  

  

  

Gaby and Waverly find them on the balcony later, the tape smoking on the table between them. The two of them are standing far too close to be just friendly, Illya’s arm tucked behind Napoleon and his hand resting at the small of his back. Each of them has a drink in hand and Napoleon’s skin is still thrumming. 

At the very least, they need to do something about his heat before they part ways. It’s unlikely that they’ll meet again. 

Gaby won’t quite meet their eyes. Waverly must have filled her in on the details of what happened in the aftermath of her betrayal. 

“Well, aren’t you two the perfect picture of international cooperation,” Waverly remarks. The man is incredibly difficult to get a read on: completely implacable and placid, unlike Illya’s stoic mask and Gaby’s fiery temper. 

Waverly smiles, “A very good thing, seeing as you’ll be working together for the foreseeable future.” 

All three of them stare at him. Illya’s hand twitches against Napoleon’s back. 

“Given how well the three of you worked together, we’ll be keeping the team together. Your handlers,” he gestures at Napoleon and Illya, “have kindly placed you under my command. In three days time, we will be leaving for Istanbul for our first assignment, so do get your things in order.” 

Gaby’s mouth has dropped open. At Napoleon’s side, Illya has gone ramrod straight and stiffer than a corpse. Napoleon himself feels like he missed a step on a flight of stairs. This was not a twist any of them had anticipated. 

Waverly’s already walking away, when he pauses, “Oh, and you have a new code name. Quite a good one, too: U.N.C.L.E.” 

  

  

  

Three days, Napoleon thinks, is ample enough time. 

It sends a little thrill through him that he’s going through his heat with a compatible alpha. He never thought he’d meet one, but he never could have expected Illya. 

Illya is absolutely adorable. He fusses over everything – mostly Napoleon – and is meticulous about making certain that they have everything that they might need. 

He’s also turned their room into a carefully camouflaged armoury. There’s a knife slung across the headboard, at least one gun on the nightstand, and only Illya knows how many more of them are hidden throughout the room. Each has been checked and rechecked till they meet Illya’s exacting standards. 

Napoleon’s omega instincts are purring: pleased to have found such a strong, protective alpha that’s more than capable of providing for him. He’s never listened to them before, doesn’t care for them now and certainly isn’t about to start, but there’s a _lot_ about Illya that he can appreciate. 

Maybe this is why he hasn’t changed his mind. Or maybe it’s UNCLE. It could be a combination of both, but Napoleon’s always been stubbornly single-minded when he sets his mind on something that he wants. 

Even if they weren’t compatible, he’d still want Illya. 

From the chiselled line of Illya’s jaw, to his bright blue eyes, hulking height and muscular bulk, Illya is the perfect picture of the stereotypical alpha. But, at the same time, he’s thoughtful, intelligent, and his touch is soft whenever his fingers so much as brush against Napoleon. 

It sends shivers down his spine whenever Illya’s fingers brush against him or his lips and it does _nothing_ to stop the burn that’s under his skin. The worst is that Illya knows precisely what his touch does to Napoleon and does it anyway, lips curved up in a small smile. 

Napoleon’s not used to being the absolute centre of someone’s affections. It’s not something that he thought he wanted, but it feels _right_ and he wants it – more than he has anything else. Illya could French-dip him in front of Saunders and kiss him like he’s dying and Napoleon wouldn’t care. 

Watching Illya prowl about their hotel room for the third time, Napoleon smiles. He feels hot, light-headed, and, shockingly, _giddy_ in a way that he hasn’t since he was a young teenager, first discovering what he was. 

He’s not used to it. But, Napoleon thinks as he watches Illya slink about like a leashed predator, he could. 

  

  

  

Napoleon feels like he’s burning up from the inside. His skin itches, like there’s something crawling inside of it – _lust and desire want oh does he want_ – and he wants it to stop. 

The ache inside of him burns white hot and sharp when Illya touches him. His hands are callused, but his touch is light, impossibly gentle and those sharply brittle blue eyes of his watch Napoleon carefully. He leans in and all Napoleon wants to do is arch up and _kiss him_ , but Illya’s hands won’t let him. 

No, instead Illya kisses him incredibly slowly, carefully. It’s nearly a chaste kiss, but Napoleon melts into it with a soft sound that he’ll deny making later. 

He fists his hands in Illya’s shirt, trying to drag him closer, but their clothes get in the way. Illya’s incredibly overdressed for the occasion, Napoleon thinks, because all he’s lost so far are his shoes. 

Napoleon had discarded his clothes first chance he got, the burn under his skin from his heat making it unbearable. He’d taken a shower; partially to try and alleviate the burn, but also because those traitorous little omega instincts of his were insisting that he make himself _presentable_ for his alpha. 

The cold shower hadn’t helped at all. 

Illya deepens the kiss at his own pace; licking his way into Napoleon’s mouth and it’s enough to make Napoleon whine. _That_ makes Illya smirk, and just the feel of his lips quirking against Napoleon’s sends a fresh wave of arousal through him. 

A tiny part of him is purring in pleasure, so happy to have obviously pleased _his_ alpha. 

Distracting as the kiss is, Napoleon’s used to getting what he wants and his hands start moving on his own. He _wants_ Illya’s skin pressed up against him, _needs_ to feel the press of his flesh, and mark him with his scent – just as much as he yearns for Illya to do the same. 

He drags his hands down Illya’s chest, fingernails catching in the fabric of his turtleneck, until he finds the hem. Slipping his hands underneath, he groans at the feel of hard muscle and smooth skin under his fingers. He slowly pushes the fabric up, trying to chart muscles and scars, but it’s hard to do when Illya _growls_ into his mouth. 

Napoleon shudders, arching up against Illya and that earns him a sharp nip to his bottom lip before Illya breaks their kiss. 

Both of them are breathing heavily, so close that their noses keep brushing. Napoleon’s trembling, lust coursing through his veins and he clenches and _fuck he has never been so wet before in his life_. 

Illya’s still smirking, “You are impatient.” 

If this were any other situation, Napoleon would tease him, say something sharp and showcase that wit that he’s so famous for. But he’s been in heat for well over a week now and his patience is fraying dangerously; he’s burning for the alpha right in front of him and he _needs_ Illya to do something about that. If not, then he’ll take matters into his own hands. 

“I’ve been in heat because of you for a _week_ ,” Napoleon grits out. He shifts, arching up towards Illya until he grins in triumph once he’s straddling the alpha’s thighs. Pressing down, he feels Illya’s cock straining against his pants – right where he wants it, but there’s too much clothing in the way. “ _Patience_ can wait.” 

To make his point, Napoleon grinds down. He’s going to ruin Illya’s pants, slick smearing against the fabric. He grins in triumph when Illya makes a low, dangerous noise in his throat, hands flying to Napoleon’s hips and gripping them _hard_. 

He’s going to have bruises and he couldn’t care less. 

Napoleon abandons his efforts to pull Illya’s shirt off, catching Illya’s face between his hands and kissing him. It’s not a polished kiss, all teeth and tongue and this time Napoleon’s the one catching Illya’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently. 

He punctuates his next demand with a slow roll of his hips, nudging his ass against Illya’s still clothed dick, “Here’s what we’re going to do: _You_ are going to get naked very fast, then you can either _take me_ like you promised to do _or_ I’ll do it myself.” 

Illya moves lightning fast, which sends a jolt of lust down Napoleon’s spine when he finds himself pinned to the bed – wrists held in an ironclad grip above his head. 

He’s stretched out below Illya now, back arched and legs spread wide to accommodate Illya between them. His own cock’s hard, leaking precum, and Napoleon’s _very_ aware of how wet he is; it’s actually starting to border on being a shade uncomfortable. When he clenches down, he can _feel_ a little of his own slick squeezing out of his body. 

Illya’s nostrils flare and he’s burying his face in Napoleon’s neck, teeth latching onto his pulse point. 

Napoleon goes very, _very_ still at the show of dominance. The only move he makes is to cant his head a little more to the side, to make the position more comfortable and to afford Illya better access. His heart ramps up its beat, fluttering against Illya’s teeth and Napoleon’s nearly overcome with the sheer weight of how much he just _wants_ Illya to bite down. 

_Take me. Make me yours. You’re **mine**_ . 

But Illya doesn’t bite him. Instead, he gives Napoleon a little warning nip, right where Napoleon _really_ wants him to leave his claim. 

When Illya speaks, his voice is low, rough and it rumbles against Napoleon’s skin, “I will be merciful… this time.” 

Voice stuck in his throat, Napoleon nods. He swallows back a whimper, skin thrumming and his mind’s already spinning, trying to imagine what Illya’s promising him. 

Before he pulls away from Napoleon’s neck, Illya squeezes Napoleon’s wrists, nipping at his pulse again, “These stay here until I say otherwise. Do you understand?” 

Napoleon nods, more eagerly than he normally would. But his heat’s long begun to border on _pain_ and he’s desperate for some relief. If he hadn’t met Illya, it would be manageable – tolerable, even – but the presence of Illya, who he’s not only _intensely_ compatible with, but wants more than any other person ever, it’s becoming unbearable. 

Releasing Napoleon’s wrists, Illya rocks back onto his knees. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a bare rim of bright blue around the pitch black. He drags his gaze down Napoleon’s body, nostrils flaring and that smirk of his is back in play. 

Although he tries to stay as still as possible, Napoleon can’t help the shiver that races down his spine. It’s such a strange, heady feeling to see Illya so _open_ in his desire for _him_ and it only grows more intoxicating when Illya proceeds to strip himself naked. 

There’s nothing really _sensual_ about the way that Illya strips. It’s purely methodical, the way that he does it, but it _still_ sends another rush of _want_ through Napoleon. Alongside it comes another wave of slick, something that surprises Napoleon because he hadn’t thought his body capable of producing so much. 

He can’t hide the tremble in his body when Illya _finally_ tosses his underwear off the side of the bed and turns his full attention back to Napoleon. Letting his gaze wander, Napoleon bites down on his lip, fighting back the urge to arch up when he catches sight of Illya’s cock. 

It’s not fear that makes his thighs shake, not even close. Napoleon’s been with alphas before, when he was younger and curious about everything. He’s experienced – cocky, even – in the bedroom. 

This, though, is different. 

And, Napoleon has to admit to himself, Illya’s dick is _more_ than simply impressive. It’s a work of art in its own right. 

Shit, he’s getting sentimental. 

He’s quite grateful in that moment that his body’s completely with the program. 

Illya’s smirk takes on an edge of pleasure. He leans back in, dragging his nails up Napoleon’s sides, and presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against Napoleon’s pulse. Then, he slowly drags his mouth down Napoleon’s chest, fingers brushing against nipples and he nips at one, which makes Napoleon jump. 

“I suppose I can take my time with you later,” Illya murmurs against the skin of Napoleon’s navel. He presses a kiss to Napoleon’s hip, hands pinning Napoleon’s hips to the mattress to stop them from jerking upwards. “You’re already so wet and eager for me…” 

Napoleon wants to snap out, _“Of course I am, I’ve been burning for you for a week. Now are you going to get with the program or not?”_

That’s not what comes out of his mouth. 

“Illya, please…” 

“What is it you want, Napoleon? Tell me.” 

The iron grip that Illya has on his hips is enough of an anchor for Napoleon to latch onto it. He has to blink past the cloud of lust, swallow down the nonsensical sounds of begging that he wants to make. 

To his credit, his voice only wavers _slightly_ , “I want you to take me.” 

Illya nods, “You know there is no coming back from this, yes? _I do not share_.” 

His laugh is fluttery, weak and catches in his throat to turn into a soft moan, “That’s funny. Neither do I.” 

The flicker of possession that Napoleon catches in Illya’s eyes is enough to have his cock twitching in interest and he bites his lip when Illya’s hands tighten to the point of pain on his hips. 

Soothing the hurt, Illya brushes feather light kisses against the red imprints that his hands left, mouth coming close to Napoleon’s dick. His fingers slide Napoleon’s thighs, nudging them apart just a little bit more. 

If he were a less confident man, Napoleon would feel self-conscious about how slick his hole is as Illya gently circles it with a finger. Instead, there’s a little niggling feeling of _pride_ glowing in his chest about the entire thing. It’s rather disconcerting. 

Any other rational thought he might have had quickly goes out the window when Illya swallows down his cock to the root. 

Napoleon’s arching off the bed, a wretched cry in his throat. His forward momentum’s stopped by one of Illya’s hands on his thigh, pinning him to the bed and then Illya’s tongue worries at the slit of his dick and Napoleon is _gone._

Even with Illya holding him down, Napoleon arches up, entire body shaking, and though his mouth is open, he makes no sound. His orgasm hits him in a rush, feeling as though it knocks him blind, before he _slowly_ begins to float back to reality. 

His breathing’s still ragged when he’s able to look down at Illya, who is smiling smugly up at him. Napoleon feels pleasantly loose; the aching burn under his skin a little less intense than it was before. He opens his mouth to say something, probably tease Illya for looking so damn pleased with himself, but instead all that comes out is a whimpering sort of moan as Illya pressed two fingers into him. 

The stretch is only accompanied by a mild burning. It’s just a little too much, too soon – he’s still sensitive from his orgasm. But telling that to his body is _impossible_ , because he can feel the tightness racing back across his skin. Napoleon’s erection might have flagged, but he’s certainly not done yet. 

He feels a tiny bit annoyed by that. 

The annoyance is quickly washed away by pleasure, and Napoleon finds himself thrusting back onto Illya’s fingers as best he can. It’s not enough, even when Illya pushes in another, curling them and then Napoleon’s seeing stars. 

“Th-there.” 

Normally, he’d be more embarrassed at how _wrecked_ he sounds, but Napoleon doesn’t care. His breathing is hitched, skin hot to the touch and he feels flustered and _empty_. 

“Ready?” 

Napoleon manages to meet Illya’s eyes, thighs twitching with the urge to clench down, but he resists. He can’t find his voice, it’s lodged somewhere in his throat while he makes a high-pitched whining noise. All he can do is nod his head frantically. 

He _wants_ more. Needs it like he needs oxygen, needs _Illya_. 

Napoleon makes an embarrassingly high keening noise when Illya pulls his fingers back, but he’s mollified when Illya kisses him hard. 

There’s nothing gentle about the kiss. Illya plunders Napoleon’s mouth like it’s all that’s holding him steady, hands on Napoleon’s hips and angling him better. His dick pushes up against the cleft of his partner’s ass and he pauses for a moment, sucking in a deep breath. 

Then he pushes in. 

It’s one long, fluid stroke. Illya pushes all the way in until he bottoms out. 

Napoleon’s got his legs wrapped around Illya’s waist, pulling him in tighter and rocking up against him as though he can force Illya deeper into him. It burns, too much too soon but Napoleon doesn’t _care_ because he has Illya inside of him – _exactly_ where he wants him. 

Illya buries his face into Napoleon’s neck, shaking with the effort of keeping himself still long enough for Napoleon to adjust. His teeth latch onto Napoleon’s pulse point, which only sends delightful little flutters of pleasure-pain down Napoleon’s spine and has Napoleon clenching down around him. 

Letting out a breathy laugh, Napoleon brings his arms down and wraps them around Illya’s shoulders. He bucks a little, trying to get Illya to move because he’s not quite sure he’s capable of words right then. 

All of his nerves feel as though they’ve been lit up at once. He’d thought he was oversensitive before, but _now_ the sensation is nearly overwhelming. Napoleon knows he could easily lose himself in the feeling of Illya inside of him. 

The little noises that Napoleon’s making are apparently enough of an answer for Illya, who pulls back and then thrusts right back in. He adjusts his angle at the last moment, making sure that he brushes against Napoleon’s prostate. 

Later, Napoleon will tell him that was unnecessary. 

The pace that Illya sets, Napoleon thinks distantly, could be described as ‘punishing’, but it’s _exactly_ what he needs. It’s too much and he’s already rushing towards another orgasm and he clenches down, determined to bring Illya with him this time. 

It doesn’t quite go to plan. 

Illya _must_ be made of sterner stuff, because he easily brings Napoleon to what feels like _another_ soul-shattering orgasm before his own thrusts turn ragged and erratic. His teeth dig deeper into Napoleon’s neck, and it’s the utterly _broken_ noise that Napoleon makes when he does that drives him to bite down hard. Skin breaks and there’s blood. 

It’ll leave quite the impressive scar. 

Napoleon’s keening, throat hoarse from the pleasure, and he locks his ankles around Illya’s waist. He can feel the tell tale swell of Illya’s knot, pressing against the rim of his hole and _that_ is enough to bring him to the edge again. 

He’s panting into Illya’s ear, nails scratching into Illya’s back as he scrabbles to try and find a hold. Illya’s teeth in his neck are a startling point of clarity, something for him to latch onto. 

Illya comes with a muffled cry of Napoleon’s name against Napoleon’s neck, entire body shuddering as his knot swells, locking him inside of _his_ omega. 

If he still had a voice, Napoleon would whimper when he feels Illya spill himself inside of him. He can feel the pulse of Illya’s knot, pressing up against his prostate and it’s on the precipice of being _too much_ , but he’s slowly coming down from the high. 

He wraps trembling limbs around Illya when he collapses against him, pulling him as close as he can manage. It’s hard to do, considering that his entire body feels like it’s turned into jelly, but Napoleon manages. 

Illya soothes the bite on Napoleon’s neck with a long lick and a soft kiss. Then he nuzzles along Napoleon’s jawline, a pleased rumble coming from low in his chest that sends tiny sparks of pleasure through Napoleon when Napoleon tilts his head and kisses him softly. 

Napoleon’s content to keep floating, although when Illya’s knot finally goes down enough for him to pull free, he makes a distressing noise at that. He’s _very_ aware that he’s, for lack of a better word, _leaking_ down there. Instinctively, his body clenches down, trying to keep all of it inside of him, but that just makes him aware of the feeling of emptiness when just second before he’d been so _full_. 

His heat’s abated for the moment, and Napoleon curls closer to Illya, returning the gesture of nuzzling under Illya’s chin. He curls close, wincing only a little when one of Illya’s fingers brushes along the new claim mark. 

Illya drops a kiss to the top of his head, “Rest, Napoleon. You can give me your mark later.” 

He’s already half asleep, but Napoleon can’t help smiling at that. A tiny little surge of pleasure and happiness pumps through him. He’ll get to mark Illya as _his_. 

His last thought, before falling into sleep, is: _Damn, I’m fucking lucky_. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warning:** During the interrogation and torture scene with Rudi, he threatens Napoleon very graphically and in a sexualized manner with a forced vivisection. If there is anything else that requires a warning in this fic, please let me know so that I may tag and warn appropriately.
> 
> Alright so, Ao3 and Chrome have eaten this fic too many times now to count, so I'm actually rather fed up with that. Hopefully, it'll go through this time and I can throw my hands up and stop trying to pull my own hair out from the stress of it.
> 
> I'd started this fic originally with the intent for it to just be a short, fluffy little fic to help kickstart my creative juices. As you can probably tell, that didn't work out. No, instead I ended up writing this lengthy behemoth that I actually stepped away from for a while, only to come back to it in the past two days to finish because I felt that I needed to. Also, it gets one more thing off my plate and I can... go work on something else, I guess. Apparently writing smut is _really good_ stress relief for me, because lord knows, I've been ridiculously stressed out the last few days.
> 
> Other than that, uh, here you go. I wrote a thing. First time writing in this fandom. Enjoy it. I worked so hard I'm kind of getting sick of looking at it by now. But I may or may not revisit it? Who knows. I had ideas for some future scenes, but not too sure whether or not I want to write them...


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